


just a speck of dust in the galaxy

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2466086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy is good at talking to the Hundred, Wells is good at coordinating the building of their camps-slash-village, and Clarke… well Clarke does her thing, and it involves a lot of bruises and cuts, and a lot of diplomacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just a speck of dust in the galaxy

Looking back, Clarke isn’t really sure what prompted it or why exactly she exploded – one too many jab from Bellamy about Ark royalty and privileges and Chancellor of the Earth. Looking back, she tells herself she must have had a rough day, or maybe week, because she’s used to Bellamy’s asshole behaviour and would have otherwise never lost her temper. But there is one too many word and one too many smirk and she just blows off, screaming at his face and giving him a piece of her mind. It ends in some incoherent rant about Wells, and her father’s death, and her mother’s betrayal.

But, more than anything else, she remembers how she yelled, “He’s twice the man you will _ever_ be,” and watch with barely concealed satisfaction as Bellamy’s eyes widened, mouth agape.

A speechless Bellamy Blake is a sight to behold in its oddity, and she’d folded her arms on her chest with a proud little smile because – damn, she’s _good_. But, more than everything else, there was that thing in his eyes, akin to respect maybe, and he’s solemnly nodded before making his exit, still not saying a word.

There is some kind of… understanding between them now, less belligerent that it was at first. Oh, Wells and Bellamy are at each other’s throat more often than not, obviously, and Clarke rolls her eyes every time she has to interpose. But they make it work, somehow – Bellamy is good at talking to the Hundred, Wells is good at coordinating the building of their camps-slash-village, and Clarke… well Clarke does her thing, and it involves a lot of bruises and cuts, and a lot of diplomacy.

But they make it work.

And, really, it’s all that matters.

 

…

 

(Wells used to train with his father, most likely to become Chancellor himself one day.

That, more than anything else, is what saves them when Anya comes and asks for answers. That, more than anything else, builds new relationships with the Grounders, peace treaties and fair trades put in place rather quickly.)

(Clarkes sees the respect in Bellamy’s eyes and she shakes her head because those two idiots are way too stubborn to realise they could be the best friends in the world if they wanted.)

 

…

 

“Don’t go with him.”

Wells grabs her arm before she can take a step back, fingers pressing a bit to tightly against the delicate skin of her wrist so Clarke glares down until he lets go – he does, eventually.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“He’s a _criminal_.”

“We _all_ are.”

It’s an old argument, they’ve had it a hundred times already. She doesn’t understand Wells’ opinion on the subject, doesn’t understand how, after all this time on Earth, Wells still make the distinction between himself and them. They are her people, and Clarke refuses to apply Ark standards to their little group of misfits – they’re in this together, after all, and she doesn’t see the point of focusing on the past.

“It’s only a scout mission, Wells. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.”

The objection is rolling on his tongue before he thinks better of it and swallows it down with a sigh and a shake of the head. It takes a grand total of five seconds before he starts glaring at Bellamy, though, who’s getting ready by the other side of the dropship and doing a bad job of pretending he’s not eavesdropping. (He’s twenty-four, for god’s sake, shouldn’t he have learnt to be subtle by now?) She wants to scoff because that’s getting old too, the protectiveness that turns into inappropriate jealousy, the “I was her friend first” thing going on since the moment they decided to lead this community together.

So she rolls her eyes, and grabs her backpack.

“We’ll be back by sunset. Don’t do anything stupid.”

She tunes out his mumbled reply as she makes her way to the entrance of the dropship. Bellamy meets her there, newfound strut in his every step and grin forming dimples on his cheeks. He irradiates so much confidence and smugness that Clarke knows the trip to the bunker will be a long one.

And, indeed…

“Trouble in paradise, princess?” There’s an edge to his voice that cancels out the selflessness he tries to pour in the words – subtlety definitely not his forte, but what else is new? “Are mommy and daddy fighting?”

“Shut up and start walking.”

His breathless chuckle is a little too close to her ear, bringing a shiver down her spine as she puts the bag on her back and glares at him. Bellamy flashes his dimples at her again – moron – before he indeed starts walking.

(She may be the mom of the camp but there is no way in hell Wells is the dad when she perfectly know this nickname has been given to someone else. She wonders if Bellamy is aware of that.)

(But then again, Bellamy is always aware of everything.)

 

…

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Clarke raises her head from the box of crap she’s inspecting and stares at Bellamy as he goes through another box in his corner of the room. He doesn’t even look up at her as he goes on, checking this or that as he talks.

“I want Raven to join our council.”

Clarke has had years of perfecting the art of schooling her features, yet her eyes widen at his words anyway with how unexpected that idea is. They’ve been doing so well, just the three of them, that adding other people had never been in the cards – she knows it won’t be that way forever, knows they will have to establish some kind of democracy soon enough, but the point remains for now. They’re fine, why change that now?

“ _Why_?”

“Wasn’t that something important for you girls before the Cataclysm? Equality and all that. Doesn’t seem fair that there’s only one of you and two of us.”

Who are you and what did you do to Bellamy Blake?

(Sometimes it is easy to forget who Bellamy Blake is, carefully hiding his true self behind the asshole persona. She forgets that he knows more about history than everyone else, forgets that he grew up with two strong women. She has seen him with Charlotte, and Raven, and Roma, has seen the way he acts around them.)

“You know we need Wells’ –”

“Like I care about Jaha’s opinion.”

Clarke rolls her eyes at the very moment Bellamy looks up, and he rolls his eyes back at her – it’s impressive, all the sarcasm he manages to pour in such a common gesture.

“ _Whatever the hell you want_ ,” she replies, matching his tone – two can play this game, after all.

A yelp escapes her when Bellamy throws something her way, followed by a laugh when she realises he’s attacked her with an old eraser, grey with time and dust. He smiles back, shakes his head, and goes back to work.

 

…

 

Raven joins the council, eventually.

 

…

 

Something loud and heavy falls next to her on the table, startling her so she loses balance and almost falls down her makeshift chair. She glares up, not even surprised when Bellamy looks down at her with mischief in his eyes, because of course no one else would dare disturb her in such a rude manner when she’s working on the inventory.

“The hell is wrong with you?”

It’s supposed to be rhetorical. As if Bellamy freaking Blake would ever give her the last word. “How long do you have?”

She rolls her eyes.

(She’s been doing that a lot lately, and she worries her eyes might get stuck at the back of her skull one day from rolling too hard because of this idiot who makes a hobby out of grating on her nerves.)

“What’s in the box?”

She eyes it suspiciously, all dented and rusty, as she remembers a little group has been on a scout mission today for weapons and ammo. Definitely not for… strange boxes with mysterious contents.

(He’s been doing that a lot lately, bringing “gifts” every time he goes outside without her. It goes from plants and roots for her supplies to colour pencils and paper to soap, as random as it goes, and she’s left dumbfound every time because what is up with him? He’s being _nice_ , and she didn’t even know this word was part of his vocabulary.)

He doesn’t answer but gives her a careless shrug as he leaves the dropship and goes back to his own business.

She gasps when she opens the box, for it contains the most beautiful set of chess she has ever seen. The pieces are made of some kind of metal, heavy in her hand as she holds them, smooth against her fingertips and breathtakingly beautiful in their every detail – the mane of the horse’s knight, the crown of the queen, the bricks of the tower. It must have cost a fortune, a lifetime ago.

But mostly she wonders how he _knew_. It’s not like they’ve had deep philosophical discussions about themselves in the few months they’ve known each other – they barely know anything about the other, come to think about it, beside the fact that they work well together.

It’s almost sad, at that point.

 

…

 

“He asked me what us royals used to do on the Ark to pass time,” Wells shrugs. “I didn’t see the point in lying, we’ve been playing chess since we were eight.”

 

…

 

She takes to playing with Wells when they have time – which is _never_. The game is always on display on the table in her tent, though, and so they move the pieces whenever they have time between two meetings. Their first, and so far only, game has been going on for a little over a week by the time Bellamy storms into her tent with some grant speech about a hunting party and how they need –

Something, she guesses, but she never finds out for he stops in his tracks the moment he spies the board.

“You’re using it.”

She’s so confused at first she can only reply a tentative “Yes?”

“With Jaha?” He doesn’t give her enough time to answer, adds a, “Of course you do.”

And then he’s storming off.

She stares at the opening of her tent, even more confused by now, blinking at the empty space that was Bellamy Blake only seconds ago. And they say girls are complicated? What a joke. This guy is the most complicated human jigsaw she has ever encountered – he keeps her on her toes, to say the least.

 

…

 

Bellamy is a stealthy bastard.

Even knowing that, he manages to surprise Clarke as he pounces on her in the med bay the following day. One second she’s alone and cleaning her tools, the next she’s pressed between cold metallic wall and warm torso, looking up into his brown eyes. Her heart clearly misses a beat from their proximity – she’s able to count every freckle on his nose, that’s how close they are – as her cheeks turn to a nice crimson with how flustered she feels all of a sudden.

She wants to ask him what the hell is wrong with him (already knows the answer) but it’s like her brain suddenly shut down and all she can do is stare into his eyes and wait for the inevitable.

Still she gasps when his lips find hers. He’s all fury and passion, a storm in the making, and she can only hold on to his hair as she follows his lead. The strong smell of forest clings to his skin and lips, intoxicating in its novelty – he tastes like freedom and wildness, untamed in his ardour, and she loves it.

Loves the way his hand slides beneath her shirt and creeps up her ribcage, loves how he pulls up her thigh and presses his hips to hers, loves the warmth, taste, smells of him.

It is everything and so much more, a revelation.

His lips travel down, teeth nipping and tongue soothing, until he finds her pulse point and she gasps again, head falls against the wall with a loud bang. She doesn’t even pretend to ignore the fire his every touch ignite, on her skin and between her legs, doesn’t even pretend she doesn’t want that, doesn’t want _more_.

But then he whispers “ _Mine_ ” into her neck and the spell is broken.

She pushes him off her, hard, hands on his chest keeping him away.

(His lips are swollen, black of lust swallowing the brown in his eyes and freckles highlighted by the red of his cheeks. A pang of pride overtakes her, if only for a second, because _she did that_. She wrecked him, and she loves it.)

“If you’re being a territorial asshole because of Wells, I swear to God I’m going to murder you.”

He looks guilty, almost, but he’s grinning too and it makes him younger and carefree – there is beauty in the vulnerability of the moment, of walls crumbling down and mask forgotten. Just a boy and a girl, without a care in the world.

“Actually, there are bets going on and I felt like letting Miller win. But yes, there’s a bit of the thing you said too.”

“You’re such a jerk.”

He flashes his dimples at her so she can’t stay mad for more than a few seconds before she makes a show of rolling her eyes and sighing loudly. Not that he minds, of course, as he leans forwards and kisses her nose, her cheeks.

“He’s like a brother to me,” she adds for good measure.

“I really don’t want to talk about Jaha right now.”

And, as he kisses her once more, she can only agree to the feeling.

 

…

 

(As it turned out, Raven is the one to win the bet, and suddenly becomes the richest woman on Earth.)


End file.
